„I was reading Slim Aarons and I got to thinking that I thoughtMaybe I’d get less stressed if I was tested less likeAll of these debutantesSmiling for miles in pink dresses and high heels on white yachtsBut I’m not, baby, I’m notNo, I’m not, that, I’m not

I’ve been tearing around in my fucking nightgown24/7 Sylvia PlathWriting in blood on the walls‚Cause the ink in my pen don’t work in my notepadDon’t ask if I’m happy, you know that I’m notBut at best, I can say I’m not sad‚Cause hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to haveHope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have

I had fifteen-year dancesChurch basement romances, yeah, I’ve criedSpilling my guts with the Bowery BumsIs the only love I’ve ever knownExcept for the stage, which I also call home, when I’m notServin‘ up God in a burnt coffee pot for the triadHello, it’s the most famous woman you know on the iPadCalling from beyond the grave, I just wanna say, ‚Hi, Dad‘

I’ve been tearing up town in my fucking white gownLike a goddamn near sociopathShaking my ass is the only thing that’sGot this black narcissist off my backShe couldn’t care less, and I never cared moreSo there’s no more to say about thatExcept hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to haveHope is a dangerous thing for a woman with my past

There’s a new revolution, a loud evolution that I sawBorn of confusion and quiet collusion of which mostly I’ve knownA modern day woman with a weak constitution, ‚cause I’ve gotMonsters still under my bed that I could never fight offA gatekeeper carelessly dropping the keys on my nights off

I’ve been tearing around in my fucking nightgown24/7 Sylvia PlathWriting in blood on your walls‚Cause the ink in my pen don’t look good in my padThey write that I’m happy, they know that I’m notBut at best, you can see I’m not sadBut hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to haveHope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have

Hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to haveBut I have itYeah, I have itYeah, I have itI have…“